The touch to his hand causes him to look down. Lifting his hand off his leg, he watches you slide their fingers together and presses their palms together, fingers folding over the back of your hand. That's strangely intimate. For all that he's touched you in ways considered by human society to be private and committed acts, sex—isn't that, in practice. This, right now, feels more personal and more vulnerable. It feels more akin to touching your soul.

He wishes he could still do that.

His mouth quirks up in a tiny smile when you say you'd want it to be good between them. He wants that too. They could try. Except that you don't want to. You don't want to—mess it up. He holds your eyes. "You know how, Dean." To do this right. He trusts that—you love him. Even if it's a different kind of love than how he feels for you.

Slowly, he tilts his head and leans into your space. He sucks a soft kiss against your mouth, tender, squeezing your hand in his once. It's not exactly sexual but not exactly chaste. Meeting your eyes for a moment, he places another kiss on the arch of your cheekbone, lingering there, his nose resting against your temple. His chest aches. He closes his eyes.

It's this, Dean. It's this. This is what has never worked between them.

For a second, it feels like he can't breathe, and then he forces his body to take in a small gasp of air. "Dean." His cheek slides against yours. "I miss you." He doesn't know what to do without you.